


We Carry on with Gashes on Our Backs

by dearcst



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Bullying, M/M, Yes Angels, angel!cas - Freeform, no hunters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-18
Updated: 2014-06-18
Packaged: 2018-02-05 03:24:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1803514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearcst/pseuds/dearcst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Dean takes Castiel, a victim of harsh bullying, to the clinic, he hardly expects them to be friends. Another thing he doesn't expect to see are the gashes on Castiel's back when he has to remove his shirt because where the hell did they come from? Despite his claims, Dean will never believe Castiel is a Fallen angel, because angels don't exist, do they? And what Castiel didn't expect was falling in love with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

We Carry on with Gashes on our Backs

 

                _“Fight! Fight! Fight!_ ”

                Castiel made no move to fight back, looking up at the two boys with emotionless eyes. Another kick to the stomach came and he hissed, taking in a deep breath. The sun was brutal, beating down as hard if not harder than the two boys above him. He held his tongue, his strength, his temper. He would be just as bad if he were to attempt to harm them.

                “Lying fag!” one boy spat and kicked him a few more times, Castiel held his torso in his arms, rolling so his back was to the bully. He felt a drop of blood stream down from his nose and he grimaced at the metallic tang when it touched his lips.

                Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel saw the shorter boy lean towards the other and whisper something. The taller glared back at Castiel on the ground and kicked him one last time, the toe of his shoe bruising his ribs and Castiel was unsure if he was imagining when he heard a small _crack_. The pair left, the crowd murmuring amongst themselves and some giving a disappointed frown as they dispersed. The reason to the two’s leave showed itself when a teacher started walking his way, a student at his side.

                Castiel couldn’t bring himself to get up just yet, a burning pain ripping through his stomach and ribs. He took a few deep breaths and after a couple minutes he pushed himself up to his knees. The teacher and the student were very near him now, but Castiel hardly looked at either of them. He brought his shirt sleeve to his nose, wiping away a streak of blood and gave a shuddering breath as he forced himself to his feet.

                He stumbled upon taking a first few steps, but eventually made his way to the restroom. He could feel the gaze of the teacher and the student on him, but still he paid them no mind. Feeling safer once he was behind the locked stall door, he slumped over on the toilet seat and put his head in his hands. He touched his rib, letting out a hiss of pain.

                The door opened again, and Castiel felt a sense of dread, solitude being the only thing he needed at the moment. Even so, he held his breath, waiting for the person to do his business and leave. The footsteps were hesitant and slow, and stopped in front of the stall he was in. Castiel felt his heart jump, hoping it wasn’t one of the boys that were just finished with him, for now anyways.

                “You all right, man?” a gruff voice asked. “Mr. Singer told me to take you to the clinic.”

                It was clear then that the man outside the cell was the student that was walking with the teacher. Even so, Castiel wasn’t one to talk. He felt something odd stir inside him, perhaps it was a pinch of shock or even happiness that for the first time someone showed him some kind of concern.

Apparently it had been a while since the man spoke since he said again: “Are you sure you’re okay? You looked pretty banged up. You should go to the clinic, y’know, get checked out for injuries and all that jazz.”

“I’m fine,” Castiel replied in an even tone. He saw the man shuffle his feet uncomfortably.

“C’mon man, you gotta let me take you to the clinic. I’ll be worried all day if you don’t.”

Castiel hesitated, swallowing and grimacing a second time as the blood wasn’t completely gone from his lips. He let out a small sound of pain as he stood up again and unlocked the stall door. The man on the other side of the door was just a bit taller than him, Castiel noted, and his eyes sparkled. He found himself awestruck, gazing into his eyes so _pure_ and Castiel couldn’t help what slipped past his lips.

“You’re bright.”

The man gave a gruff laugh. “Bright? C’mon there’s like no light in here. There’s plenty in the clinic though. Let’s go.”

Castiel nodded once, feeling foolish for letting the words go like that. He was still unaccustomed to the way the humans worked, but still he knew so much as to know not to say things like that. The other man was quiet most of the walk across campus and Castiel quietly studied his profile. Awhile later, the stranger spoke up again.

“I’m Dean by the way.”

“Dean,” Castiel tested the name on his lips, saying a few moments later, “My name is Castiel.”

The stranger— _Dean_ —laughed a beautiful laugh, his body moving along with it and his smile stretching across his face. Castiel was enraptured.

“Isn’t that a religious name?” he asked with those bright eyes. “Angel of Thursday.”

Castiel looked shocked for a moment. _How do you know who I am?_ he fought the urge to ask, and instead substituted, “Not many people know the names of angels.”

Dean shrugged, “My brother is a geek. I have to listen to him talk about all kinds of crap: religion, history, or literature etc.”

Castiel nodded once, “He seems well educated.”

“He is.”

The lapsed into another silence, but Dean seemed eager to break it. “Do you have any siblings?”

Castiel looked down, smiling in spite of himself. _Had_ he internally corrected. However when he answered, he said, “I do.”

Dean turned around a corner and soon they were in the clinic. There was the average kid with a cold, one kid that was just skipping class, (“I have a really _really_ bad headache!”), and one girl that was getting her daily medicine. The nurse looked up, her nametag reading _Nurse Jody Mills,_ and immediately rushed over.

“What the hell kind of tornado hit you?” she asked and led him to a chair for him to sit down. She started with taking a wet cloth and dabbing a few cuts on his face.

Castiel was relieved when Dean answered for him: “I dunno, I just found him like that on the ground,” he looked at Castiel with another grin. Castiel’s stomach flipped. “Took some convincing to get ‘im here though.”

Nurse Mills looked disapprovingly at Castiel, “You should never hesitate when you need medical attention,” she said sternly. “I’m going to need you to take off your shirt. I can see blood soaking through, and I need to check for serious injuries.”

Castiel nodded, wincing at every moment he made to move his torso. He dropped the shirt on the ground. The colder air felt like a slap in the face, stinging a rather largely sized bruise on his chest. He took in a deep breath, _control the pain. It is not real_.

“I’m going to press on your stomach. Tell me if it hurts,” she said and applied a bit of pressure just over his ribs.

Castiel made a pained face and immediately informed, “That hurts.”  
                The woman nodded sadly, saying, “I think you’ve bruised a rib here.”

They proceeded in relative silence and Castiel made a few noises of discomfort as she bandaged him up. Dean attempted to make up a small topic once and a while, but from the three word answers Castiel provided, he soon gave up. He looked at him as if he was a puzzle because _who is Castiel?_ Apparently Dean didn’t know, and apparently no human may in their lifetime.

Castiel may be described as being withdrawn, but given his history, it is to be expected. Castiel eventually became used to the occasional pinches and pricks and he let his mind drift away. The physical world never did much for him, not that anyone could relate to him, but it was still comforting to read of different dimensions and surrealism. Newly human, Castiel imagines he would like to be an author.

The nurse gave a curt nod as if to say _All done here_ , and then she turned back towards her desk. “You’ll have to sign in,” she said, “I normally would have them sign in when they first come in, but you looked pretty bad. Your name?”

“Castiel,” said man replied.

There was a stretching silence between the three and the nurse’s expecting gaze scratched at Castiel’s face.

“Castiel..?”

“Yes.”

“No, she means your last name,” Dean provided.

Castiel looked uncomprehensive for a moment. “Oh,” he said dumbly, “Novak.”

The nurse chuckled and wrote it down, “I’ll have to check you for a concussion!” she teased and turned back to him with a content sigh. “Well you’re all fixed up! It’s third period right now. He’s a new shirt. Be careful now! I’d normally say ‘see you’ but taking as this place is what it is, I hope to never see you again!”

Dean laughed softly, but Castiel remained quiet and simply nodded. He stood from the chair, striding over and taking the shirt in his hands, seeming to have difficulty with figuring it out at first. Just when it was slipping over his head, he head Dean speak.

“Dude,” he sounded breathless and Castiel turned confusedly towards him. “What’s on your back?”

“My back?”

“Oh my word, how did that happen?” the nurse looked concernedly at him.

“What happen?”

Eyes flickered pointedly to a mirror.

                “Oh,” Castiel said lamely, staring at the gashes just under his shoulder blades. “It’s nothing.”

                “ _Damn_ that looks bad,” Dean hissed and his fingers twitched as if he wished to touch it. “What happened?”

                The shirt was hastily and clumsily pulled over his torso and pride flashed over Castiel’s face at the act. He looked up content with himself; his eyes locked with Dean’s, Dean’s unanswered question lingering like the aftertaste of wine on his lips and Castiel’s blatant desire to leave it that way was flying back and forth.

                “I have English next,” Castiel said and picked up his bag.

                “Really? Me, too!” Dean grinned widely and Castiel found his eyes lingering longer than they should have.

                “Oh look, friends already,” Nurse Mills smiled and shooed them off.

                The classroom wasn’t that far from the clinic, so it took nearly a minute to reach the door. Just before they entered, though, Dean still had one itch to scratch.

                “So wha’dya even do to make those kids pick on you like that?”

                Castiel turned to him as if he didn’t expect him to ask. “I told him that his father is wrong to ever beat him.”

                Apparently that was the wrong thing to say since Dean looked like he’d been electrocuted.

                “What the hell, man? You don’t just say things like that!” he hissed and looked around as if it was a crime and they were two feet away from the imperial guard.

                “He looked pained,” Castiel said slowly, “I thought it would help him.”

                Dean gave a sigh and raked a hand through his hair. “First year in high school?” he asked, and Castiel nodded. “Freshman?”

                Castiel tilted his head incomprehensibly.

                “Y’know, ninth grade,” Dean received the same blank stare. “You _have_ been to school before,” he joked.

                But evidently Castiel was not joking, he still looked confused.

                “How old are you?” Dean asked, getting frustrated.

                “Eighteen—“

                “Hey what are you boys doing? Get to class!” a teacher shouted as she passed the hall they were in.

                “Shit, man, let’s go,” Dean rushed into the classroom.

                “…Trillion, years old,” Castiel finished absently and followed.

~~*~~

                “ _Fight, fight, fight!”_

                Castiel found himself in a very similar situation the next week. Denying to fight back, his only defense being to curl in on himself and close his eyes, he withstood. This fight, however, Castiel wasn’t so lucky to have a teacher cross their paths. He tasted the metallic tang of his own blood— _blood_ , Castiel thought, _it was so strange to have human blood_ — and he quickly found that he had no idea how to survive in this kind of environment.

                He held his tongue the best he could in the presence of pained souls, trying his best not to make a mistake and say something he “shouldn’t.” This time, however, he wasn’t sure he did anything. He did still look at souls and pray to Heaven for an angel to take care of them in some way. He didn’t think he was heard.

                Castiel was staring particularly long at one strangled soul when the soul turned around to face him, demanding to know why Castiel was staring at him, if he was a “fag,” and then a few fists later—

                _“Fight, fight, fight!”_

                Ah, that’s where we were.

                Castiel felt needles stabbing him everywhere and he vaguely wondered how humans could handle this kind of pain regularly. A few seconds later, he found his vision blurring as black spots appeared and he was grateful for the numbness. He didn’t know how long later did he hear a familiar voice.

                “Cas? Cas? Shit, are you alive?”

                “You know him? How can you recognize him?”

                “Shut up, Sammy, help me sit him up.”

                He coughed up a few ounces of blood as his position changed and blinked his eyes open slowly. He heard Dean sigh in relief, and his tongue poked out of his battered mouth to lick over his chapped lips, grimacing at the taste of blood.

                “Castiel? Holy shit, man, what’d you do this time?”

                “Castiel? Like the _angel_ Castiel?”

                “Shut _up_ Sam!”

                Both blurry figures looked expectantly at Castiel as if they wanted him to answer something. Castiel spit out a bit more blood, coughing for a moment to get his voice back. It was hoarse and broken.

                “What?”

                He saw Dean smile at his voice. His soul brightened. _Beautiful_. “C’mon let’s get you to the clinic. Sam, you get that side.”

                He felt himself getting lifted up by his arms and suddenly found his legs were sore and hard to use.

                “Sam,” Castiel said, testing the name.

                “My lil’ bro,” Dean’s face was blurred, but Castiel could hear his expression.

                As if sitting up was painful, walking was even worse. Castiel was sure Dean could tell since he kept looking apologetically to him. His breathing was rash and harsh, suddenly feeling a wave of disappointment and void of his healing advantage.

                “Almost there,” Dean said encouragingly, pulling Castiel along a little faster.

                “I thought I said I never— Oh my God, what happened?!” Nurse Mills rushed over and helped to lay Castiel down on the cot.  Only Sam noticed his flinch when the nurse used The Lord’s name in vain.

                Castiel’s vision was starting to clear, but still a bit blurred. He could Dean saying, “Same story as last week. Just found ‘im like that.”

                “Poor child,” the nurse said sadly and rushed to get a cloth to clean his bruises and cuts.

                Dean slumped over in his seat, sighing. “What the hell did you do man?”

                Castiel made an incoherent noise which only dimmed Dean’s soul. Sam was standing awkwardly at the door, _Am I supposed to stay or go back to class?_ , resonated from him. Castiel jumped at the cold cloth now running over his cheek.

                “Ah, there you are,” Nurse Mills said sweetly when she cleaned off the blood from his face. “They really went for your face this time, huh?”

                No one answered.

                The check-up went as the week before, Castiel removed his shirt, hissing in pain when the nurse pressed into his torso (“ _Yes, that hurts,”_ ). Dean’s eyes kept drifting to his back. The scars weren’t visible since he was lying down, but he kept wanting to see it again because _what the heck did that_?

                “Next time sock ‘em in the face. You don’t look weak, c’mon, man, what are you waiting for?” Dean blurted.

                While the nurse would normally say not to encourage fights, she sincerely didn’t want to see Castiel like this again. Castiel would have shook his head, but instead he simply made a noise of disapproval.

                “Seriously? Fine, what’s the son of a bitch’s name? I’ll do it.”

                “Dean!” Sam interjected.

                Dean shrugged and looked at him, _What else am I supposed to do?_

                However, Castiel replied, “I do not know.”

                “Do something! You can’t like being hurt like this!”

                “I must turn the other cheek,” Castiel said steadily. “The soul was tortured enough as it is.”

                Everyone was taken aback by the strange choice of words, but they shrugged it off. Sam’s gaze lingered longest. Castiel let out a hiss of pain as he sat up, finding it easier than the first time. He was done, he could tell. That’s all what he would have done (to a better extent) had he not…

                The nurse had already left to get him a new shirt. Dean’s eyes were already crawling over the violent red gashes on his back, at least an inch wide and a foot long.

                “What the…” Sam looked at the marks in disbelief.

                “Yeah, I freaked out when I first saw it, too,” Dean said.

                “Castiel,” Sam said, though he wasn’t calling, instead he was pieces things together. “You’re... Are you an angel? _The_ angel Castiel?”

                Castiel looked at Sam in a mixture of surprise and sadness. Dean had already started laughing, (“ _He’s religious and stupid, don’t mind him,_ ”) and Castiel’s eyes dropped down again.

                “No,” he said grimly, though his meaning was clear to Sam. _Not anymore_.

                “Oh my—“ Sam cut off, realizing it was insincere. “Do you mind me asking… How did you… You Fell.” _How?_

                Dean rolled his eyes.

                Castiel smiled a small smile and looked fondly at Sam. “I’m happy my Father has such a follower to recognize me,” he said softly. “I will tell you what you wish.”

                Sam looked stunned in place, in the presence of some giant celebrity, and Dean just looked at him like he was insane.

                “You know you don’t have to humor him,” Dean said deadpan.

                “I don’t understand how this is humorous,” Castiel tilted his head in confusion.

                “You’re serious.”

                “I am.”

                “You’re insane.”

                “Dean—“ Sam cut in.

                “No, _this_ is why everyone beats him up, he’s _insane_.”

                “What other explanation do you have for him refusing to fight?”

                “Pacifist!”  
                “Talking about souls all the time?”  
                “He’s artistic—or insane!”  
                “Those giant scars on his back where _wings would be_!”

                Castiel suddenly felt uncomfortable. Dean had no answer, quiet for a few moments.

                After the longest time: “’You’re bright.’”

                And the others didn’t understand.

                “You said that to me,” he turned to Castiel, “When you first saw me. You said ‘You’re bright.’”

                Castiel nodded slowly.

                “What the hell does that mean?”

                The nurse was returning with the shirt now, handing it to Castiel and signing his name into the book. Dean was awaiting a response and Castiel looked down.

                “Your soul is bright,” he said fondly, “ _So_ bright.”

                There was lingering silence and Castiel stood with effort to retrieve his shirt. He slipped it on and turned back, seeming dejected.

                “You do not believe,” he did not ask, it was a statement.

                “No,” Dean said as if it was obvious. The conversation could have been _The sky is blue. Yes._ and his tone would not have changed.

                Castiel turned away sadly and then faced Sam.

                “I have not sinned, but I have Fallen, and I do not know why,” he answered his previous question. Sam clung to each and every word. “It was painful,” he said slowly. “And it still hurts.”

                Castiel walked past both of them, continuing to his fifth period, Sam starstruck, Dean weirded-out, and the nurse hoping the next time she sees Castiel it won’t be in the clinic.

~~*~~

                After that, Sam made an effort to befriend Castiel and Dean to avoid him. Castiel was grateful for the change from punches to hugs from Sam, but still felt cold when Dean left the room when he entered. Sam told him not to mind Dean since he was just being a “little girl,” but that didn’t make Castiel feel any better.

                Sam asked him what he did when he was an angel, and Castiel responded that he was a Guardian. He watched over tormented souls, bringing them happiness in the darkest places, after the shadow, but before the sunrise. He realized that was probably the reason he stared at souls in the school so much.

                “You told Dean his soul was bright,” Sam said cautiously, “I can’t help but wondering… Is mine… Bright, too?”

                Castiel looked contemplative for a moment. “It is very beautiful,” he answered honestly. “However Dean’s is… “Blinding” for lack of a better word. Obviously I’m not _blind_ but the intensity of—“

                “I get it,” Sam cut him off. “Do you know what makes the soul brighter or dimmer? Tormented or blessed?”

                Castiel’s head tiled to the side, looking into Sam’s eyes for a moment before answer slowly. “The more tormented the soul, the dimmer it is. The more blessed the brighter,” he answered simply.

                “So Dean is… Blessed?” Sam sounded strange as if he didn’t believe Dean’s life was blessed.

                Castiel shook his head. “No,” he said, “What makes his so bright is that his soul is so tormented, but he brings good upon others, so much happiness and elation and beauty to the world that the hatred that was cast upon him is simply shredded. He’s taken something horrible and made it into something so magnificent and—“ Castiel cut off, not sure where he was going with that.

                It was quiet for the longest time, something Castiel had grown accustomed to. The periodic ticking of the clock filled the room and eased them of the silence.  Eventually Sam spoke again.

                “Can angels love humans?”

                “All angels must love everything and everyone.”

                “That’s not what I mean.”

                “Then what do you mean?”

                “Can you fall in love—romantic love—with a human?”

                A break of hush.

                “I do not understand.”

                A silent melody.

                “Just… What you were just saying. Had you been human, I would have no doubt in my mind that you were in love with him.”

                And beyond the untold whispers: “I _am_ human now.”

~~*~~

                After that night Sam had started leaving Dean and Castiel alone together. At first, Dean would taunt and make jokes, calling Castiel insane or loony, (“ _I thought they had special homes for people like you_ ,”) and Castiel had taken none of it to heart if it meant to be in the presence of such a beautiful soul for just a minute longer. His eyes were a shade of green that set his heart running wildly. His fingers curled and uncurled— _Please, I want to touch you_ —and then he looked away.

                However, Dean’s snarky remarks started to lose their poison. “You’re nuts,” he would say under a soft smile and make an excuse to brush against his arm.

                Castiel never responded to the supposed-to-be insults, but the reply came before he could stop it, “I will be anything if it makes you smile like that.”

                He saw Dean freeze momentarily before brushing it off as if it was just a grain of sand on his eyelash. He laughed that— _beautiful beautiful beautiful beautiful_ —laugh and then touched Castiel’s shoulder again. “Yeah, whatever.”

                There was something on fire inside Castiel, and at first, Castiel looked everywhere for an extinguisher.

                But… this fire wasn’t bad.

                His eyes followed Dean’s tongue as it ran over his bottom lip and hid back away inside his mouth. Dean didn’t notice. Castiel sat closer to him than he had before, their knees knocking together, and if Dean noticed, he didn’t show it. Castiel pulled out his homework and pretended to do the problems while he focused on the scent of Dean’s breath— _bubble gum_ — and then filled in random responses so that it didn’t look _too_ fake. He got the first F in his life.

                Castiel still got teased and taunted in school, but somehow he didn’t care anymore, and that’s when he realized he actually cared in the first place. He only looked forward to afterschool when Sam would meet him and Dean call him crazy then they all go back to Dean’s— _Sam and Dean’s_ house.

                “You should tell him,” Sam whispered one day. “I see the way you guys look at each other, come on, it’s obvious.”

                Castiel looked down at his shoes. “I am uncertain of his reaction,” he admitted.

                “Just go for it,” Sam encouraged, “I’m pretty sure he won’t reject you.”

                Castiel nodded once, still looking pensive and robotic. Just as they entered the house, Castiel turned back to Sam.

                “Actually, I don’t—“

                But Sam wouldn’t have it, “DEAN! CASTIEL HAS SOMETHING TO TELL YOU!”

                Dean turned abruptly, his eyes piercing as ever and his stance strong and valiant even though they weren’t in any battle. He had the vague thought that Dean would make a good fighter. Sam shouted something else, probably an excuse to leave the room since that’s what he did. Dean was still staring at Castiel.

                Castiel felt his mouth go dry.

                “Well? Spit it out, Crazy-Cas.”

                Castiel swallowed. “Sam was joking,” he lied. “I have nothing to say.” He turned to the door.

                “C’mon, man,” Dean said and grabbed his shoulder— _hold me longer_ — “You can tell me anything.”

                Castiel couldn’t bring himself to say it, “What do you think of me?” he substituted.

                Dean didn’t reply, and Castiel’s back still to him, he couldn’t see his expression. “What do I think of you? What’s that supposed to mean?”

                Castiel’s eyes dropped, unsure of how to continue. “When you address me, you only say that I am of mental incompetence,” Castiel decided on, realizing this was bothering him more than it should. “Am I just the ‘insane’ friend of your brother?”

                Again, Dean did not reply immediately, and Castiel felt his heart drop. Of course that’s all he ever was. He discovered the worst thing about being human: heartbreak.

                “Apologies,” Castiel said in a shaky voice, “I will leave.”

                But before he could take a step Dean’s voice was rushed: “Whoa! Wait! Hold on! You know that’s not true. I just… Come on you’re not an angel.”

                Every time the topic was brought up, Castiel felt even more ripped apart. “I’m not.”

                “You never have been,” Dean corrected.

                This is when Castiel turned to face him. He didn’t speak. He just looked at him in way that made Dean just squirm under his gaze. His eyes were so intense and screaming, just _screaming_ to say that same thing over again. Dean’s foolish.

                “Angels don’t exist.”

                “You are faithless,” Castiel spat as if it was the worst insult one could inflict upon another. And in the way he said it, Dean felt the same.

                “You’re seriously claiming you’re an angel?!”  
                Castiel looked at him in hurt and disbelief. That there was this huge chunk of him that Dean wouldn’t believe. How could he fall in love with someone who would not accept him? Why didn’t this fact make him love Dean any less?

                “All I am to you is insane,” Castiel stated again, “So all you are to me will be the brother of a friend of mine.”

                Castiel abruptly turned away and stormed out, feeling a prickling sensation in his eyes and he rubbed them furiously to get it to stop. Sam rushed to him.

                “What happened?!” he demanded concernedly.

                Castiel’s hands came back wet with tears. “I cannot,” he said in a shuddering voice, “I cannot be in love with someone who does not believe in who I am.”

                Castiel buried his face in his hands again and Sam gave him a tight hug from the side, trying to comfort best he could but knowing it would never compare to the hurt Castiel was feeling. He didn’t expect Castiel to keep talking.

                “So why am I?” he finished in a voice broken like a dropped vase.

                Neither of them saw Dean standing at the top of the staircase.

~~*~~

                The next morning Castiel woke up he felt strange. He felt weightless, divine and pure; a million feelings all at once and anything negative counteracted. His bruises and cuts were nowhere to be seen. Castiel sat up quickly, eyes wide and suddenly feeling no fatigue at all. He rushed to the bathroom.

                His shirt was stripped off quickly and he dropped it aimlessly. He turned around.

                The scars on his back were gone.

                “ _Castiel_ ,” he heard his sister’s name. “ _Castiel, we’ve finally come to take you from your mission._ ”

                “Mission?” Castiel asked back in utter bemusement. “I am not on a mission, am I?”

                The response came immediately, “ _You have committed no sin, of course you have not Fallen. You were on a mission, but we mustn’t tell you of it now. You will return to Heaven now and we will relay the information received_.”

                “Wait!” Castiel shouted immediately, then his voice dying in his body— _vessel_ , he corrected himself—“two hours. Two hours to say goodbye to the friends I have made.”

                “ _Of course_.”

                Castiel felt something rush through him and he smiled again. He didn’t walk out the door that morning.

                He flew out that door.

~~*~~

                Sam was asleep when Castiel found himself in his bedroom. He hesitated, not wishing to wake up a friend from such a peaceful sleep, but he knew his time was limited. A hand found Sam’s shoulder and he gently shook him awake. Sam rolled over lazily, swatting an arm at the figure trying to deprive him of precious sleep.

                “Five more minutes,” he slurred in a sleepy drawl, turning his back to Castiel.

                “Sam.”

                Upon hearing Castiel’s voice, Sam blinked his eyes open. His movements were sloppy and misaimed. He fumbled with the alarm clock by his bed, glaring at it for a few minutes before he could finally see clearly.

                “Cas? It’s like—Six, thirty-two AM,” he said, obviously the kindest way to say _Go away let me sleep._

                Castiel nodded, going through in his head how to say what had to be said. But no matter how many times it was rehearsed, it came out sloppy and ragged.

                “I have to leave,” he said softly without meeting Sam’s gaze. “I have… I have my Grace back.”

                Sam was fully awake now, sitting up on his bed and pushing his hair out of his face. He probably looked like a wreck, but he knew Castiel never cared much for physical appearances. His eyes gradually widened as he realized what Castiel’s words meant. Castiel expected sadness, betrayal, abandon, or even anger. Sam grinned.

                “That’s so cool! So like you’re an angel again?” his words were accented with a bounce on his bed. “You have wings and everything? Like you can fly? Oh! Can you do miracles again?”

                Sam’s questions came firing, his voice getting louder and louder the more he spoke. Castiel smiled fondly, feeling silly for worrying about how Sam might have reacted. Yes, he would definitely miss Sam.

                “So could you like—“

                “What the _hell_ are you doing up so—“ Dean yelled through the hall as he stomped angrily into the room, bed head and all. His voice stopped as he saw Castiel, his heart still as well. “…Early?” he finished in a smaller voice.

                “Dean,” Castiel acknowledged indifferently.

                “Hey Cas,” he said weakly. _No Crazy-Cas?_

                But then Castiel turned away. It would have been less painful to punch Dean in the face. He felt a pang of hurt and jealousy as Castiel started to speak with Sam again. He restrained himself from pushing Castiel into the wall and forcing his eyes up to his own. His fists clenched. _Was all of yesterday just a lie?_

                “Sam,” it was Castiel’s voice, “I only have two—“ his eyes flickered to the clock, “—one hour.”

                Sam’s smile wilted, but stayed in place. It was fake.

                “Oh… Well you’ll be up doing Guardian stuff again. That’s cool,” he said softly.

                Castiel smiled again and— _Don’t look at him like that. Look at_ me _like that_ —  said, “I’ll miss you, too, Sam.”

                Sam nodded and sighed to himself. Dean felt his mind running away from him and no matter how he tried he could never catch it. It seemed Sam was completely fine. Castiel had no problem. Why was he the only one that felt something so _wrong_ about Castiel leaving? He wasn’t _supposed_ to leave.

                “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Dean bit in a sharp tone that shocked both Castiel and himself.

                Castiel didn’t even look at him. Dean dug his fingernails into his palm. “It is not of import,”  Castiel said dismissively. Dean bit his tongue.

                “You’re fucking abandoning me—us—“ he corrected, “and wherever you’re going is _not of import_? What the hell kind of friend are you?!” he shouted.

                “Your _insane_ friend,” Castiel said in equal anger, turning to look at him, but somehow his presence was so much bigger.

                “You aren’t insane!” Dean fought back, “I was just a stupid kid!”

                “You are faithless,” he repeated in the same venomous way and though there were clear skies there was thunder.

                “I am not! I believe you’re a friggin’ angel! I was just teasing you!” Dean yelled.

                “Lying is a sin.”

                “I’M NOT A LIAR!”  
                “YOU ARE.”

                There was another flash of thunder and a cast shadow of wings appeared for a half second. Dean flinched back, eyes wide as two dark ebony wings unfurled from Castiel’s back. They glistened brightly with luster unimaginable and Dean felt the urge to run his fingers between the feathers. His fingers twitched by his sides.

                “What the hell..?” he said in both awe and shock. “They’re—“ But no word would come close to describing them.

                Castiel’s livid expression softened immediately, replaced with one of disbelief. Dean rambled about how he couldn’t believe what was right in front of him and Sam watched the scene silently from the bed, unable to bring himself to interrupt. Castiel had to gather himself to speak.

                “You see them,” he said breathlessly.

                Dean looked at him incredulously. “Who wouldn’t? They’re like—friggin’—“ he waved his arms around as if to show the measure of the massive wingspan. “Huge!”

                “You have faith,” Castiel said softly, saying the words he most wanted to believe for all his time. His expression lifted into a smile of elation and ecstasy, as if the fact that Dean had faith in him was the greatest prize to ever be won. Greatest trophy to be held or medal to be worn.

                But time had passed too quickly for he heard his  sister’s voice.

                “ _Castiel, are you ready?”_

                “Naomi, please, may I have more time?”

                “Cas?  
                “ _We cannot wait any longer_.”  
                “I’m out of time,” Castiel said in a desperate apology to Dean.

                Dean rushed forward and fisted his hands in Castiel’s shirt. “Don’t you leave me! Don’t you friggin’ try!” he shouted at him.

                “Dean, I must,” Castiel said unconvincingly.

                “Stay,” Dean pled.

                “ _Castiel!”_

                “Naomi, I don’t want to leave!” he shouted  back to the Heavens and pulled Dean into his arms, burying his face in Dean’s shoulder.

                “ _You will Fall, Castiel. We cannot sustain your Grace while away._ ”

                Castiel held Dean tighter.

                “I can’t leave,” he said in a voice just a step away from breaking.

                Castiel let out a loud scream and fell to his knees, and away from the comfort of Dean’s arms. Sam rushed over, shouting his name because _what was wrong with Castiel?_ Castiel was writhing on the ground, trying  not to keep shouting but the yelps just forced themselves out, what’s more was the searing pain in his back.

                “Oh shit, get a towel, Sam,” Dean ordered harshly and ripped Castiel’s shirt off, hissing at the newly made scars. “Cas, what the hell’s going on?!”

                But Castiel was in too much pain to answer, tears falling from his eyes and shouting as his Grace was being pulled farther and farther away. Dean felt suddenly worried Castiel wasn’t going to make it, his jean’s tainted a sickening red of his lover’s blood and Sam finally returned with a towel. It was hastily wrapped around Castiel’s torso and the beige towel was being tarnished crimson.

                Castiel’s shouts had died down and now he was just a deafening kind of silence. His cheeks, tearstained and feeling broken all over again. It hurt worse the second time if you were to ask him.

                “What just happened?” Dean asked in a hollow voice.

                Castiel swallowed, gathering up his strength to speak though the devastation of his throat. “I’m saying,” he finally said.

                Dean cursed under his breath. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean for you to…”

                “I wanted to,” Castiel said softly. “Please just…” Castiel leaned into Dean’s lap more dependently. Sam pulled the towel back away, noticing the gashes had already closed. Dean wanted to pull Castiel into the bathroom to wash him from all the blood, but he looked so content as he was he couldn’t bring himself to move him. There was time later.

                His hands ran through Castiel’s hair lovingly and he pulls Castiel farther into his lap. He doesn’t notice when Sam leaves the room. He can only watch the Fallen angel on his lap, beautiful eyes closed in a peaceful sleep and for whatever reason, he chose _him_ over being an angel. But he wouldn’t argue. Instead he would make sure Castiel never lives to regret it. Despite everything telling him not to, he couldn’t stop himself from bending over and brushing his lips against Castiel’s softly, chastely.

                “I know I can’t see your soul,” Dean whispered into his mouth. “But I’m willing to bet anything yours is brighter than mine.”  
               


	2. Dean

                If you were to ask Dean, his entire life was just a big mistake. Everything was indescribably painful for as long as he could remember. However, that wasn’t exactly the case. The first four years of his life were magnificent. His mother used to sing to him each night, cut the crusts off his sandwiches; his father would let him help out in the yard work, and to a child, to help out Dad was _everything_. When his little brother was born, he thought it was the happiest moment of his life. He’d never seen his mom more elated, though tired from all the work. He’d never seen his parents so happy together. Six months after that— _that’s_ all Dean can remember.

                It seemed just like any other day, everyone oblivious to what would happen later on. Mary had made breakfast like any other day, and John helped out barbequing lunch, and Mary would have made dinner, except that she didn’t.

                “John,” she said weakly and turned over in bed. “I think I have a fever. You wouldn’t mind making dinner tonight?”

                John agreed , _“_ Of course,” he kissed her forehead, “is there anything else you need? Glass of orange juice?”

                Mary shook her head, her eyes fluttering closed. John had never seen an angel sleep, but it couldn’t have looked more beautiful. “I just need to rest,” she said softly and John nodded. His fingertips lingered on her cheek before he tore his gaze away.

                Picking Sam up and carrying him downstairs, John sets him down by Dean on the couch, watching TV. Dean glanced over before ignoring Sam again and continuing the show. Sam crawls over and falls over Dean’s lap, but Dean doesn’t seem to mind.

                “Watch your brother,” John instructs and goes into the kitchen. He pours oil into the pan, heating it up and throwing in some potatoes after it’d warmed. He reached for some salt, knocking over the olive oil on mistake. He cursed under his breath, picking up the bottle and deciding to clean it up later so the food didn’t burn.

                Dean flipped through random channels as Sam crawled around him, tugging at his shirt and his arms.

                “Stop it, Sammy,” Dean grumbled and leaned back.

                Sam made a noise, squirming around some more. Dean pushed Sam off of his lap only to have him crawl up again, eyes wide and innocent. _Innocent, yeah right_ , Dean thought and picked him up, setting him on the opposite side of the couch. Sam did sit still for a while, giving Dean enough time to grin in triumph, flicking to the next channel and finally finding something interesting.

                Sam kicked his feet and looked admiringly to his brother before turning and crawling over again. Dean groaned, trying to make Sam go away again, but Sam reached up and snatched the remote because if _Dean_ is doing it _he_ wants to.

                “Sam!” Dean yelled in irritation and tried to reach for it back. Sam hopped off the couch. “Give it back, you big meanie!”

                Sam giggled and bit the top of the remote. Dean glared and chased him, which only made Sam laugh more because _Dean’s playing with me!_ Eventually Dean had caught up because there’s only so fast a six-month-old can crawl, and Sam fell over. Dean got the remote back, glaring at his little brother who made a face of discomfort and then started to cry.

                “No, no! Don’t cry! Stop!” Dean said hurriedly, pushing the remote back at him. “Look! You can have it back!”

                But Sam apparently didn’t care about the remote anymore since he kept crying. The next time Dean looked up John was standing by them, picking Sam up.

                “What did you do to him?” he asked tiredly.

                “Nothing! I swear! He just fell!”

                John gave him _the look_ and Dean’s eyes fell down. With a sigh, John carried Sam back up to his room, hopefully to keep him occupied with his toys while he finished dinner. He didn’t have time to set him down before he heard Dean yell.

                “DAD! DAD! THE KITCHEN!”

                John ran downstairs again quickly, Sam still in his arms, whining and squirming. Flames had already spread half across the room. John cursed audibly, Dean glancing up curiously as if he didn’t understand the words, but nonetheless knew they were suitable for this situation because when did Dad do anything not good?

                “Take your brother and run outside! Wait for me!” John said, words rushed and he handed the infant over.

                John ran over to the phone, calling the fire department. Still on the phone, shouting out an address, he ran upstairs, heat tauntingly close and the mocking scent of oil and burned potatoes drafting behind him.

                “MARY!” he shouted, but the fire was crossing through the doorway. His wife was still asleep in her bed, flames spreading and surrounding her. Alas all his shouting, Mary would not wake up. John felt something tear at his heart and he jumped through the flames, ignoring the burn and small flames that caught on his shirt. He shook his love’s shoulder. Mary awoke disoriented and weak, eyes red and voice scratchy.

                “What..?” she said softly, not understanding yet. She coughed harshly.

                John picked her up, jumping through the flames again and darting downstairs _. I will not leave her_ , he shouted to himself in his mind and ran faster. But Mary fell from his arms as he slipped on the last few steps. She lay on the ground as John coughed violently, smoke penetrating his lungs.

                “Mary,” he said hoarsely, “Come on.”

                Mary did not move.

                “MARY!”

                “Dad?”

                “GET BACK OUTSIDE, DEAN!”

                Dean shook, scared from the outburst and ran back outside.

                The fire swallowed Mary out of sight and by that time firefighters had already arrived, grabbing his arms and trying to pull him the few meters to the door.

                “No! My wife is still in there!” John begged, but they were stronger than him.

                John was dragged outside the house, held by two firefighters as more were busy putting out the fire and two more in the house searching for Mary. John felt fear biting at his heart as he fell to the ground because there was nothing left he could do. It was nearly sunset and starting to chill but it was nothing compared to how cold he felt inside.

                Dean was next to him, holding Sam. “Dad? Where’s mom?”

                “Be quiet,” John bit out in anger at himself, at Sam, at Dean, at the firefighters, at the world.

                Dean was taken aback by the bitterness his father showed, but brushed it off because Dad wasn’t mean. He held his brother protectively and tightly, feeling the comforting body heat spread through him in the night air.

                “Don’t worry, Sammy, Mom’s gonna come out soon,” he said convincingly, “Because you know what she says to me every night? You too? Angels are watching over us, so they won’t let Mom die.”

                A few moments later a fireman burst through the flames cinematically, holding Mary in his arms. Her skin was red and blistered, her hair burned and crisped. John broke free of the others’ hold and rushed over, not noticing the tears starting to fall from his eyes.

                “Mary? Mary, look at me? Mary?” he said urgently, but he was pushed aside again.

                “We need a medic!” the fireman yelled another man rushed over.

                Mary was laid down on the ground, and despite everything that had happened she could have had wings and a halo in John’s eyes. Her burnt skin was still beautiful. Her face was still graceful. She was magnificent in every way possible, and John loved her more than anything in Heaven and Earth and he pled to God oh, _please_ , just give her back to me.

                The medic held her wrist, before looking up at the fireman with a grim expression. He shook his head slowly.

                “The smoke suffocated her before the fire could hurt her,” he explained to John somberly.

                But John hardly heard him, teeth grinding and fists clenched, he turned to anger as last resort. The fireman started talking again, but his words went unheard. Dean looked up at him, partly confused, partly scared of his father’s stance. His lips parted slightly in effort to speak, but Sam spoke first—well more like chirped and/or garbled. Dean held him closer, blaming the cold night air despite the dying fire.

                “Dad?”

                John didn’t look at him, barking, “Get in the damn car,” and slammed the car door closed after them. Dean jumped in another pinch of fear from the loud sound and buckled in. He didn’t understand when they started to pull out without their mom.

                “Dad? Why are we leaving mom?”

                “Shut the fuck up,” John’s grip on the wheel tightened.

                Dean shrunk into the back seat, kissing Sam’s cheek. He still had Sam. He still had Dad. Maybe they would meet up with their mom later. He smiled to himself, leaning on the car window and starting to fall asleep. He sent a silent prayer of thanks to The Lord as he did every night. _Thank you for protecting our family._

~~*~~

                But he was wrong when he said he still had his dad. After that night, John had started drinking, staying out late, sometimes leaving for days on end, sometimes bringing back a strange looking woman who smelled of alcohol and wore smeared red lipstick. Sometimes they disappeared into Dad’s room and sometimes he heard groans and moans and sounds that made him think John was hurt or something.

                Dean grew up too fast. It was either grow up or have himself and Sam starve, both of food and love. When Sam started kindergarten, Dean talked him through the Do’s and Don’ts, showed him the bus stop and where the best place to sit on the bus was. He was the one that raided Dad’s drawers for lunch money to give to Sam, and Sam grew up happier than he did. Seeing his smile every day made everything Dean did worth it.

                During the days they didn’t have school, they either didn’t see their father at all, or they wished they didn’t. When Sam was six John started to get abusive and Dean started to get protective. Sam with wide eyes, and a sweet smile, innocent questions and incomprehension that Dad didn’t answer questions like—

                “Where’s my mom?” he asked, “Kids at school all have moms. Do I have one?”

                Utter anger and resentment over took John’s face like a poison. He tightly clenched a beer bottle glared daggers at his son.

                “No,” he spat out and Sam flinched back. “You _don’t_ have a fucking mom, and it’s your fault—your _crying_ and _whining_ and _distracting_. You killed her!”

                His arm raised, and for one terrifying moment, Dean was sure the look on his face was that he was about to hit his brother. Stepping between them, Dean pulled Sam closer to him.

                “Don’t! You _know_ it wasn’t his fault!” even Dean wasn’t sure what he was implying, though the angry look on John’s face heightened. Dean hastily added, “It’s mine! I was chasing him when he fell!”  
                John was quiet for a moment, and Sam was just confused. The silence between them was unbearable and Dean grew even more scared by the seconds that passed. No tick on the clock could comfort him.

                Finally John spoke, “You’re right,” he said darkly and Dean felt his heart drop because _was he right?_ John backed both brothers against a wall.

                Dean closed his eyes in fear, blocking Sam from his Dad’s range completely and waited for the blows to strike because no one looks like _that_ unless they’re going to hurt someone. But he didn’t touch them. He turned around and his footsteps sounded like thunder. Just as Dean’s guard dropped, he pulled Sam into a tight hug, a scared embrace, an _I almost lost you_ embrace.

                A loud _SMASH_ broke Dean away from Sam as a beer bottle crashed just an inch away from Dean’s face on the wall. Shards of the bottle _clinked_ as they fell to the ground and wasted alcohol dripped from the wall. Dean shuddered in fear and grabbed Sam’s hand and ran up to their bedroom. They slept together in one bed that night, and Dean wasn’t sure if it was to protect Sam or to feel safe himself.

~~*~~

                Despite Dean’s tormented life, Sam lived in relative happiness. He went to school every day and loved learning the most, specifically religions and mythology. He still prayed every night even if Dean said he wasn’t sure he believed in God anymore. For having someone like Dean, God _had_ to exist. So each night in thanks— _Thank you for giving me Dean_ — and every day in school, Sam went through life with a smile.

                As a child, he didn’t remember his mother at all, and hardly remembered his dad. He saw John sometimes, but Dean always made Sam leave the room, not that Sam knew why. Either way, Dean was all the family he needed. When he drew a picture of his family in school, his teacher looked at him strangely.

                “Where’s your mom and dad?” she asked, indicating to the nearly blank page.

                “Dean’s my family,” Sam replied happily and colored in his hair. “I don’t have a mom. I don’t know Dad well.”

                The teacher’s gaze lingered a little longer, possibly sad, and continued walking around, smiling at students’ drawings.

                Sometimes when Sam got home, he would notice Dean limping or holding his arm more than usual, checking in the mirror two times more than often. If he asked, Dean would laugh and ruffle his hair, _don’t worry about it_. Sam brushed it off, he was being silly wasn’t he?

                Sam got home once and saw Dean putting make up concealer over a new bruise on his cheek.

                Dean doesn’t know he saw.

                Sam found an excuse to kiss his cheek that night.

                Sam was making straight A’s in school, he only expected Dean to do the same. When he was nine he saw Dean’s report card was all C’s and a D. Dean had papers scattered all over his room, some crumpled and some stained with alcohol. His first thought was maybe Dad came in and spilled some on it, but he wasn’t so sure that was the case anymore.

                Sam brought home a permission slip for the Spelling Bee one day.

                “Dean!” Sam ran up to him and Dean greeted him with a hug.

                “You want some chicken? I made some a few hours ago. I think—“

                “Where’s Dad? I need him to sign this for the Spelling Bee!”

                But instead of saying where Dad was, Dean took the paper from Sam’s hands and signed it himself.

                “I got his signature down,” Dean grinned cheekily, “Don’t worry. Dad wouldn’t want to sign this shit anyways.”

                Sam looked down for a moment. “He can’t come? What if I win and no one sees?”

                “Dad would _never_ go,” Dean says with a bite of anger in his tone. Sam looks taken back and Dean instantly looks apologetic. “Sorry. I just know he won’t go.”

                Sam looked down again, trying to hide his sadness and doing a very bad job at it. “Oh… Okay,” he said softly.

                Dean ruffled his hair again, “Don’t worry about it,” he smiled, “You want some chicken?”

                “Can I have spaghetti instead?”

                Dean laughed to himself before taking out a pot. “Sure, sure.” And after all those nights of torture, he was finally genuinely happy. Sam took a huge bite out of his spaghetti and Dean had a smaller bowl for himself, eating slowly. That all changed when the door slammed open. Dean hurried Sam and his bowl into his bedroom and once again, Sam had no idea why. Nonetheless, He started eating in his room, and Dean came back a half hour later, looking weary.

                He dropped onto his bed and fell asleep immediately. Sam put down his bowl and walked over to him, looking at his face and bringing his hand over it, wiping away the makeup he saw him apply before. He kissed the two bruises and four cuts goodnight and sent a prayer of thanks to The Lord for giving him Dean.

~~*~~

                “Sam Winchester. Spell the word: _Overcast_.”

                “Overcast. O-V-E-R-C-A-S-T. Overcast.”

                “Correct.”

                Sam smiled to himself and sat back down, watching the fifth person in line stand up and spell the word _triumph_ correctly. He took a deep breath, telling himself to calm down because he can _definitely_ win. Someone next to him waved to her mom in the audience, and he felt slightly discouraged. _No matter_ , he cheered himself up, _You can win even if Dad won’t come._

                His eyes scanned over the audience anyways, widening as he saw Dean in the seventh row. A huge grin broke out on his face and Dean smiled back, giving a small wave. Sam had gotten out of class to do the Spelling Bee, so he vaguely wondered how Dean was there when he should have been in class, too, but he supposed his teacher let him out as well.

                “Sam Winchester,” he heard his name again and stood. “Spell the word: _Rancid_.”

                “Rancid. R-A-N-C-I-D. Rancid.”

                “Correct.”

                Sam smiled and sat back down. Dean flashed him a big thumbs up and Sam giggled to himself. And when the Spelling Bee was over, Dean took him in the car and drove them both to get frozen yogurt. Sam won second place and Dean had ranted the entire time _Who the hell needs to know how to spell entrepreneur? That game is fixed. FIXED!_

Sam laughed, shaking his head seeing as Dean couldn’t even pronounce the word right. When they got home, laughing and giggling, the house was dark which meant their father wasn’t home. Dean smiled wider. They went up to their room, starting to talk gossip, how Sam had seen this cute girl, Jessica, in his science class, and Dean started teasing him about it.

                “Have you ever had a crush on anyone?” Sam asked.

                “Ah, um,” Dean said softly, looking down. “Actually, I dated this girl Lisa for a while.”

                Sam sat up straighter, wanting to know all the details. His eyes prodded and poked at Dean in a way that almost made him feel uncomfortable. He never opened up to people—but then again this wasn’t people. This was Sam.

                “She was nice,” he said lamely, “I think—ah… We were together seven months. She was…” Dean trailed off, unsure of where to go. “Well anyways… She wanted to meet Dad, and I wouldn’t let her. She thought it was something like I didn’t trust her enough to let her meet him, or didn’t take her seriously. She broke it off.”

                _Am I just a one-time fling that will never meet your parents?_

_Come on, I didn’t mean it like that! We’re more than that!_

_You’ve met my mom! You’ve met my sisters!_

_It’s DIFFERENT!_  
                “Oh.”

                Dean nodded emptily.

“Do you not like Dad?” Sam asked, knowing how Dean always made everyone avoid him.

“It isn’t like that,” Dean said tiredly, “He’s just… Confused. He’ll snap out of it eventually,” though his voice wasn’t so sure.

 A few seconds later there was the loud _BANG_ of a gunshot. Both Dean and Sam jolted, fear racking over them. They sat still, listening to the sound of their breathing before realizing the silence had gone on too long.

                “I’m going to go find Dad,” Dean said softly in a shaking voice, feeling sick.

                “Dean—“

                “Stay here.”

                Dean rushed out of the door and closed it behind him. He walked quietly, stealthily through the house as if he were robbing it. The house was still dark and Dean crept up the stairs to his father’s bedroom. He pushed the door open.

                His Dad was lying on the bed, left arm hanging off the edge and right hand clutching a pistol to his temple. The sheets were a dark crimson, and Dean wasn’t sure they were bought that color especially since it was only red around his head and shoulders. It was soaking through the mattress.

                “Dad?” he asked shakily.

                His Dad didn’t move.

                “Dad,” he said more sternly. “Dad, sit up.”  
                He didn’t.

                “Sit _up_ dammit!” he yelled and marched over angrily. “Sit up! Wake up! Open your fucking eyes because I _KNOW_ you didn’t just—“ his voice cut off as he choked on his words. He clenched his fists, banging on his chest. Once, twice, three times—“WAKE UP! FUCKING WAKE UP!”  
                “Dean?”

                “GO BACK TO THE ROOM, I TOLD YOU NOT TO MOVE!”

                He heard Sam retreat quickly, but he couldn’t bring himself to care at the moment. He shook his Dad’s shoulders violently, the gun falling from his limp hand and his eyes cold and lifeless. He dropped him back on the bed and clenched his fists because _How could he do this to them?_ Dean collected himself in under a minute and walked back downstairs, opening the door to Sam’s room slowly and quietly.

                “Dean? What happened?” he asked, fear biting at his tone as if he was scared of another outburst.

                Reminded of himself and his father, Dean apologized, “Sorry I yelled,” he said softly, weakly. “Nothing’s the matter. Go to sleep.”

                Sam didn’t seem like he believed him but obeyed. He turned over and pulled the blanket up to his chin. Dean walked over and kissed his forehead, his lips lingering longer than they should have and he pulled him into a tight hug. Before Sam could question it, Dean let go and walked out of the room.

                Sam fell asleep.

                Outside, Dean walked and kicked up rocks in the ground. He ripped at his hair and didn’t care if the neighbors heard him when he yelled—

                “FUCK YOU! FUCK EVERYONE UP THERE! ANY GOD OR FUCKING ANGELS THAT MIGHT BE UP THERE!” he shouted, anger and frustration pouring from him like rotting caramel. “YOU TAKE MY MOM THEN YOU TAKE MY DAD, WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WANT FROM ME?!”

                His voice died, and he was wrecked with sobs. Everyone he ever felt close to was ripped away, and now his brother and he were orphaned. He cried softly, covering his face as he fell on the ground and hugged his knees for he had no one else, and had he had someone else he could not burden them.

                “What do you want from me?” he asked absently, knowing— _believing_ —there was no one up there that could hear him, watch over him, help him.

                The next morning he called his uncle, Bobby, and explained everything. Bobby told him to wait in the room with his brother while he buried the body. Getting others involved would end up in Dean and Sam getting put into an orphanage, and with Dean being eighteen in a few months, he could take care of the two of them perfectly well. Nonetheless, Bobby still checked up on them, made sure they had money and food. Bobby was a biology teacher at the high school, so Dean saw him more often than he would normally.

                Life passed like a rock falling steadily in an ocean. Dean passed through the motions but had nothing to sustain him. He was walking with Bobby— _Mr. Singer_ , he was reminded to say in school—when he saw a boy on the ground, battered and bruised like he had been before. But before he could say anything, the boy pulled himself up and ran into the bathroom. He watched him until he disappeared behind the door.

                Mr. Singer broke his thoughts.

                “You should take that boy to the clinic.”

~~*~~

                The boy’s name was Castiel, Dean discovered, and _wow_ what a name. His eyes were just beautiful, _screaming, whispering, yelling, speaking_ blue. Don’t even get him started on Castiel’s hair, his face, his height, his tongue, lips, his voice, it was all _perfect_ , and Dean had never fell this hard since Lisa. It hardly registered that this was a _boy_ and that Dean should be questioning his sexuality at this moment, but right then, nothing could come close to the burning in his chest. Castiel didn’t talk much, so Dean kept trying to keep a conversation going, but even without words, just being in his presence was enough.

                And magnificent wasn’t enough to describe him, nothing was. Dean fell too hard. He didn’t know how anyone could lay a finger on such an angel. His hand would brush against Castiel’s, and he knew Castiel didn’t notice but it was electrifying. He did it a few more times and wondered if Castiel would mind if he held his hand. That was weird wasn’t it?  
                They were outside English class after the clinic, and Dean was still curious—

                “So wha’dya even do to make those kids pick on you like that?” he found the words sloppily tumbling from his lips, and damn he should have spoken more clearly because a beautiful person deserves to be spoken to in beautiful words but before he could try to correct himself Castiel—

“I told him that his father is wrong to ever beat him.”

                Time stopped. In that minute Dean almost thought Castiel was talking to him. _That John was wrong to beat you_ , and his eyes that apologized in themselves. That he could look into his eyes and just _know_ —

                “What the hell, man? You don’t just say things like that!”

                Castiel looked at him for a long moment and Dean was starting to think he really _could_ see into his soul.

                “He looked pained,” Dean felt his breath caught in his throat because Castiel looked right at _him_ —but he looked away. “I thought it would help him.”

                Dean let out a huff of breath like a hurricane just came and robbed him of precious oxygen. _Him. The boy that got fisty with Cas._ Castiel was something else. Dean would do anything to have him. And so all of English class, Dean stared at Castiel— _did you know he has two freckles on his shoulder?_ — and Castiel showed no sign of realizing this. Dean realized his pencil was moving, doodling on the corner of his paper. He didn’t care, doing whatever he felt like as his heart raced and he counted the strands of hair sticking up from Castiel’s head.  He only realized the bell rang when Castiel stood up. He gathered his stuff, looking at the blank paper with hearts doodled all over the margin and blushed, mentally slapping himself.

                _What the hell am I? A thirteen year old girl?_

                He kept the paper.

                And so, his crush developed quickly. He tried to speak to Castiel on multiple occasions but always ended up chickening out because how could someone so insanely beautiful love someone as wrecked as him? Nonetheless, Dean ended up having to collect paper more frequently, unable to stop himself from doodling on his essays and then not wanting to turn in the girly paper, rewriting it. His grade in English dropped from a B to a C but Dean didn’t care. Not when Castiel was right there.

                But he couldn’t just keep _watching_ , that was creepy. Dean decided he would work up the courage, I mean, _Hey, Cas, can you come over after school?_ isn’t that difficult a sentence. However, the next time he saw Castiel, it wasn’t the way he wanted to. He and Sam were about to go home when he saw him beaten and battered by the gym locker room. He cursed and ignored Sam for the first time in his life and he ran to help him. Sam seemed bewildered but followed him.

                “Cas? Cas? Shit, are you alive?” and though he was half joking, he did look badly beaten.

                “You know him? How can you recognize him?” he heard Sam ask.

                “Shut up, Sammy, help me sit him up.”

                Sam helped Dean push Castiel into an upright position and drops of blood dripped from those— _beautiful soft beautiful mine beautiful_ —lips. Fear dripped down Dean’s heart as Castiel started to cough and more blood stained his shirt, but his eyes blinked open. _Thank God_ , Dean sighed under his breath in relief. He saw Castiel lick his lips and then cringe at the taste.

                Dean racked a hand through his hair, “Castiel? Holy shit, man, what’d you do this time?”

                But Sam apparently didn’t let Castiel talk since, “Castiel? Like the _angel_ Castiel?”

                “Shut _up_ Sam!” Dean snapped, wanting nothing more than to hear Castiel’s voice.

                Castiel blinked a few more times, uncomprehensive of the shapes in front of him. Dean leaned closer.

                “What?” the lone word sent Dean’s heart soaring. He had it bad.

                Dean fought the urge to chuckle and stood, pointing for Sam to go to Castiel’s left side. “C’mon let’s get you to the clinic. Sam, you get that side.”

                Dean pulled Castiel’s arm up and, _you’re so warm,_ Sam picked him up on the other side. Castiel limped along weakly and Dean hugged an arm around his waist because he’d always wanted to do that, and though he felt bad about taking advantage of the situation, he didn’t. Castiel had a thin waist, almost able to feel the soft skin under the shirt and then—

                “Sam.”

                Oh, right, they hadn’t met. “My lil’ bro.”

                And Sam smiled down at the beaten boy, having such trouble walking and letting out the occasional whimper or groan. Dean felt horrible, each of his sounds of pain shooting straight through him. They had to stop meeting like this. Next time they should go to the movies or ice cream or pizza or— Castiel was breathing rapidly, harshly and Dean hugged him tighter in encouragement.

                “Almost there,” he said softly, trying to keep Castiel going. He could see the room to the clinic.

                “I thought I said I never—Oh my God, what happened?” Nurse Mills shouted as Castiel came into sight. He was rushed into a cot and Dean sat close by.

                Dean’s eyes ran over every inch of Castiel’s body as if he could heal him with his sight. His fingers twitched at his sides, wanting so much to hold him while he was being treated or to help treat the beautiful boy himself. Nonetheless, he sat stiffly in the uncomfortable chair. Oh, he’d been asked a question.

                “Same story as last week. Just found ‘im like that.”

                It was hard to remember to answer things like that with an angel sitting next to you.

~~*~~

                Dean believed that Castiel was an angel. He believed in Castiel, and had faith in him. What he did _not_ believe in were other angels, a supposed God that was supposed to be looking over all of them because _bullshit_. Dean’s life had been nothing but Hell and if Heaven existed, what sin had he committed to deserve a fate as the one he had? But someone as _beautiful magnificent wonderful graceful lovely elegant brilliant perfect_ as Castiel just had to be an angel. There was no doubt in his mind.

                Though he didn’t know how to treat Castiel. Knowing he was an Angel of the Lord, how could they ever be friends let alone lovers? Was that even legal? The frustration built up inside Dean, the misunderstanding and rejection spilling from him like a broken glass because _that’s what he was_ and what happened just came out: _You’re insane_.

                _But don’t look at me so sadly when I say that. I don’t mean it. I’m stupid_.

                Unable to cope with being with Castiel, he avoided him. He dreamt of his eyes and his hair and his lips and _him_ and the second he came into sight he fled. Dreams filled with Castiel holding him and saying “I don’t care about Heaven, I care about _you_.” plagued Dean. Fabrications of lips. Fantasies of holds. _Castiel, Castiel, Castiel, Castiel, oh my love I can’t express the frustration of not being able to show myself._

                He hadn’t fallen this hard with Lisa.

                What was wrong with him?

                After a while he found himself and Castiel alone more often, and Castiel seemed more flustered than he was. Castiel would blush more often and Dean couldn’t stop himself from laughing because he was just too cute. Sam would bring Castiel and him into a room, then make some excuse to leave— _I have to use the bathroom_ , though he never came back. Nonetheless, Dean made unnecessary touches and graces, getting closer and closer and waiting for Castiel to push him away and he never did. 

Even once Castiel tried to do his homework sitting next to Dean, and Dean tried to distract him. It was adorable, really. He would kick his foot softly, stretch and brush his wrist by the back of Castiel’s neck. Castiel blushed and marked in another two answers quickly. Dean bit back a laugh when Castiel answered that George Washington was the sixteenth president.

                He leaned closer, his lips a few inches from Castiel’s ear and resisted the urge to kiss under it. A soft blush scattered over Castiel’s cheeks and Dean could tell he was uncomfortable with him being so close, but he didn’t care. He was selfish.

~~*~~

                Dean wasn’t sure which broke him more. _You are faithless_ or the sound of Castiel crying and knowing it was because of _him_ because… Dean didn’t know why. He locked himself in his room, berating himself for being so cruel and for screwing up any chance he may have had with Castiel. He banged his head against the headboard, groaning in pain, and then accepting any pain anyone wished to force upon him because remembering Castiel saying “ _So why am I?_ ” just killed him. Knowing that his feelings were requited Dean wanted nothing more than to run to him and kiss him all over, hold him all over, touch him all over, but he knew those feelings probably dwindled because of how shitty he was at being a good person. How could an angel ever be in love with someone like him? His self-loathing was interrupted with Sam yelling and shouting things excitedly. Dean groaned, getting up and pushing the door open loudly because—

_What was Sam doing up so damn early?_

 


	3. Castiel

                In the end, it was of selfishness that sent Castiel on his mission. Because such a beautiful, radiant soul to be so faithless was such a shame, and the angels above wanted to claim it because, because, because there were not enough reasons in the world to justify it. Gazing down at the world with one wide eye and one shut and shriveled, Naomi pointed a finger and nodded, _He is Righteous, and he must know that we are here. That God has made him._

                The first attempts to help him believe however, were petty. The things like giving him an A on tests that he knew he failed, lifting his spirits when he was feeling low, giving Dean extra tips on his work days, they were small, insignificant deeds that Dean didn’t blink twice at. Naomi and the others were forced to think of an alternative. They were unaccustomed to the way of human life and where faith originates because to angels, faith was like the brightness setting on a cell phone; it’s always there, inevitably there, but it can be more so for others, and the only way to lose brightness entirely was to turn the phone off.

                _Castiel_ , somehow was brought up. _The angel with too much heart_. And unbeknownst to Castiel, it was decided and his feet suddenly felt too heavy on the clouds, his fingers too wide to grab onto anything, and the bright heavenly light too much for his eyes. And he was unaware he had Fallen until he felt the excruciatingly painful rips through his back and the earth under him feeling harder than it had felt before.

And despite his shouts and screams for help, despite his cries of answers, each and every one went unanswered. His hands shaking in fear, he turned and saw a single road with no cars. His feet carried him as if on instinct, his heart beating rapidly and he had no warning before he dropped to his knees because what was this place? What was he doing there? What wrong had he done? Panic and anxiety rushed through him and he knotted his hands in his hair, pulling at it and he screamed again for an answer: _Brothers, Sisters, what have I done?_

                His only answer was the wind pushing him on. He stumbled to his feet and took another step and another and another and _another_ why could he not stop? He spun around and looked for anything familiar but he found nothing. Just over the horizon he could see a few buildings, somehow it drew him towards it like a magnet. He blinked into the bright daylight, looking forward.

                He was unprepared to see a school. He had no other choice nor did he have any vague idea of what to do otherwise. His footsteps were slow and shaking as an aftershock and he found himself in a classroom, somehow no one questioning the new student. The next time he blinked there was a backpack and supplies complete with a schedule. There was roll call and his bemusement was built upon when the teacher—

                “Castiel Novak?”

                He blinked dumbly because _Novak_? Nonetheless he raised his hand. The teacher nodded like she recognized him.

                And somewhere in Heaven, Naomi watched as if it were some cheap movie theater complete with complementary popcorn. She pushed Castiel along on the trail and into the classroom, setting up the perfect moment, even giving him a class with Dean Winchester. It would be simple and easy, Castiel would approach the Righteous Man and show him how real angels were. But where her plan went awry was where she had not realized Castiel had no idea why he was there and who Dean was, so you can imagine her fury when they didn’t speak for the first week.

                She sent waves of anger upon the other students and prompted them to attack Castiel, and in turn the Righteous Man would save him. She did not wince at the hits and grimace when blood fell from his lips, and she did not feel a thing when he curled in on himself in self-defense. Castiel, a warrior and soldier of the Lord did not lay a hand on the child, and somehow Naomi did not waver at that. She knew the Righteous Man would come, and she knew Castiel would convince him of angels and God and restore faith.

                And so she was right. Dean found him in the bathroom after that, and she folded her hands in her lap. Her lips twitched into a contorted smile as she watched them converse, she did not register the brokenness of Castiel’s voice and Gr—soul. But perhaps for an angel, Castiel always had had a soul. And there it was— _the spark_. The first glance Dean had at Castiel’s back had ignited some sort of faith in his soul and his thoughts echoed, they resonated in everything she allowed herself to hear. _It’s almost like he’s an angel._

                But after that it had dwindled and Naomi was infuriated again. Castiel was _so close_ but he failed. Dean was watching Castiel plenty so why was it not the other way around? Castiel had the full ability to convince Dean to have faith, yet he was not. And that is how the other boy was provoked, filled with indescribable rage for apparent no reason other than a glance and Castiel found himself painted on the ground. His voice was hoarse and Naomi didn’t even feel the need to avert her eyes. This was all for the greater good after all. They wanted Dean’s soul to be filled with faith, and it did not occur to her that this _want_ was fueled by selfishness.

                She was however feeling something when Castiel’s consciousness withered and started to fade, but it was not concern. It was something along the lines of _Where is the Righteous Man?_  And Castiel let out his last sharp breath before it evened and his vision blacked. The teenager seemed satisfied and started to leave. Naomi crossed her arms, waiting for the Righteous Man, but he would not come for a while. The blood on Castiel’s nose started to dry and crust, his limbs limp and shaking. Naomi sighed and leaned on one hand. Must she wait forever?

                But it was not forever, it was a half hour. Thirty minutes of Castiel curled up on the concrete, the collar of his shirt sticking to his chest in blood that dripped from his nose and the corners of his mouth down his neck and trickled down his shoulder. Finally the Righteous Man knelt by the angel and brushed some hair from his head. Another boy was with him, _his brother_ , Naomi noted, _unimportant_.  He helped Castiel to his feet and to the clinic again. There was something growing in his eyes and something about the lingering touches that Naomi felt she wasn’t paying enough attention to, but she let it be.

                She was shocked to find the brother have faith before the Righteous Man; however, this ignited the faith in the Righteous Man, so she was delighted. She didn’t care about the lies that spewed from his lips _his soul believed_. But the Righteous Man only believed that Castiel was an angel, he did not believe in angel _s_ or God.

                So she gave them more time, but the more time she gave them, the deeper they fell. Both of them. Dean’s gaze lingered longer and longer and longer and Castiel’s fingertips brushed Dean’s as wistful thoughts tumbled through his dreams. Unspoken promises were shared and somehow they were so close without even touching. There was something passionate about the two of them, and if Naomi had been wiser, she would have seen the danger in it.

                But it wasn’t Dean’s faith that grew with each day, it was something else, something Naomi almost didn’t recognize and then felt foolish for not realizing it sooner, realizing that it was _love_. The fire burning beneath their hands when they were close enough to touch, their voices and words that shot back and forth teasingly and flirtingly. It was innocent and beautiful, not that Naomi could recognize as much, she only recognized the lack of faith, and this time she could do nothing. She could do nothing to influence such a beautiful soul.

                Everything changed one day when Castiel acted on the glowing love, but the confession was twisted and turned into a quarrel, and words were spat and shot that could never be taken back but they were truth so it didn’t matter did it? Naomi could see the hurt that tore through both souls like a dagger and the Righteous Man’s realization that Castiel was acting much too defensive for only his own behalf—there were others—there was a Father that Castiel felt he had to defend and the last flame was lit on the oil poured over his soul—

 _He had faith_.

                But it tumbled behind the lines of war and bombs and gunshots sounded in the defense of confusion and hurt because _what were they to do?_ But Naomi paid no mind to their troubles, she called Castiel the next morning. He had completed his mission and restored faith to the faithless Righteous Man. She could sense his confusion and demand for answers, and she could sense his hesitation she could not understand his hesitation. Would he not want nothing more than to return home? Unbeknownst to her, home is more than a roof.

                She did not understand the pull between the Righteous Man and the angel. She did not understand why they held each other in their arms and felt the warmth they felt, and it was not physical but emotional warmth.

                They spoke so simply.

                Again, Naomi did not understand.

                And in shouts and begs they did not want to be separated.

_Naomi, I don’t want to leave!_

Naomi did not understand. She merely let go and pretended not to hear Castiel scream.

                And then she realized she was wrong. Dean did not have faith in other angels.

                He had faith in _Castiel_.


End file.
